


The Chair

by Nixiesaurus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: Child Abuse, Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nixiesaurus/pseuds/Nixiesaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"S-Sir -"</p>
<p>"Sebastian," the voice, deeper than it usually was, thicker, clogged the young master's mind and made his body tremble, "do you know why you're here?"</p>
<p>"Y-Yes, I was - was... I did something - something bad - b-bad, e-evil... you s-s-said e-evil...," and his voice broke, cracked, the way the wood creaked when the claw pulled the second nail out at the jerk of his father's too-strong arm, too-familiar arm.  "But I - I didn't mean to!  I didn't mean to - I just was -"</p>
<p>"Precisely," Augustus interrupted, pausing for a moment as if contemplating what he was doing, before he continued.  A third nail, another squeak, and Sebastian was starting to seem jittery in the chair.  Enough so that Augustus sounded irate when he continued, "and I warned you a long time ago, that the next time you did something bad, there would be consequences.  Now, what sort of father would I be if I gave you false promises?  If I never followed through on punishments?  Hm?  You would lack discipline.  You would lack order."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chair

**Author's Note:**

> This was written to sort of give a glimpse at Sebastian's abusive childhood. 
> 
> Please keep in mind that this is a very, very dark fic with no happy ending, and no notes of resolution. Read at your own discretion; it includes child violence, homophobia, and gore.
> 
> The pretense was that Sebastian had been caught in the room of his manor with his hand down his pyjama trousers, and it was the last straw for his father. The history with Sebastian was that he was like any other young boy, and had started showing signs of femininity, which his father wouldn't tolerate from a Moran. The beatings had begun fairly early, but this was sort of the breaking point for the young boy.
> 
> Notes on Characters:  
> Sebastian Richard Moran; thirteen, son of wealthy former-Ambassador Augustus Moran  
> Augustus Moran; undescribed age, homophobic and classist  
> Wil; Sebastian's brother, Wilhelm Augustus Moran (older by 2 years).  
> Adamina; mentioned is Sebastian's younger sister, mentally handicapped due to Augustus' abuse when she was an infant

 

  
Good wood, no matter how old, will retain its shape, its texture, as long as it gets treated with some sort of sealant, or stain.  That's how Sebastian knew that the chair he was sitting in (well, had been shoved in) was _damn_ fine quality.  Probably locally made, by some wrinkled old craftsman who had been sawing and shaping arbor since he was a child, an apprentice in his dusty little shop.  The young boy wondered if his father had picked the chair out, or... no, his mother must have, because the nice seat was situated in the center of the cellar.  Sir Augustus Moran must not have liked her taste, then again, he never really did.

 

The cellar itself wasn't somewhere that Sebastian Moran particularly hated, but it did happen to be the location that Augustus so often picked for his beatings.  It was secluded, dark.  It was away from the dining room enough for guests not to hear.  More than a few times, the boy had slept down there, and well, we know the purpose of cellars, don't we?  Created underground, they're made for the simple reason of preserving.  Preserving food, wines, jars, meats, little boys.  For keeping the temperature cold, so without a blanket, Sebastian got used to low temperatures.  They didn't bother him as much, but... but what did bother him was - well, Sebastian hated how eerie those mason jars looked in morning sunlight that cracked through the slim glass towards the ceiling, glowing a yellow (a bit to the right) and making whatever contents inside look... sick.  Like sick, with viscera and gelatin and floating objects.  Once, Sebastian had gone to a fair, and paid ten pence to see a freakshow.  You know the kind, don't you?  The ones where taxidermy two-headed cows are on wood platforms, or some three-eyed calf's head that floats in a giant jar?  Yeah.  Those kind, except he knew the servants had canned these, with picked eggs or - or vegetables but... never the less, Sebastian couldn't stomach the sight.

 

So the boy stared at them, having been removed from their perch on the wood shelving on the wall.  Adjusting nervously in the seat, he tried to ignore how damp the cellar felt, how cold it was under his bare feet, and how it made his skin feel sticky and heavy... he tried to ignore how tight his face was from crying, from the drag down here, where Sir Augustus had twisted his arm up and around, and pulled him down the old stairs, leading him to that chair.  Rubbing his wet nose with his forearm, the thirteen year-old boy tucked his chin nearly to his chest and tried to... tried to c-c-calm his breathing... Small hands, innocent enough, reached to touch the wood of the chair he sat in.  Good wood.  Th-that... That damn chair with the good wood, where the child's fingertips brushed over the sealed grain, and he reminded himself that his mother must have picked the chair... That she must have looked at it and approved of it, and he envied the chair, envied how it was held with interest or - or approval and...

 

The jars, lined up on the floor, had been relocated for a specific reason, it seemed.  Wood, handcrafted shelving, was what held them previously, and young Sebastian's green eyes squinted in the dim light provided by the thin glass windows at the top of the walls of the cellar to see just what it was his father was doing.  And then... then, there was the scrape of the claw, of the hammer.  The tilt of the tool was heard, when Sir Augustus pulled the first of four nails out from the shelving; the squeak of metal and wood, that sort of pop of steel against grain loud in the quiet room.

 

A squeak, and it sucked the air out of the boy with a sharp, hushed gasp.  His chest sunk down, and he curled back against the chair, as though hiding against it, as though it could... could make him invisible, could hide him -

 

And that's when S-Sebastian started begging.  That's when his voice left him sounding weaker than he had any desire for it to... because the unknown, _fuck_ , that was what made things worse, wasn't it?  The unknown?  And Sir Augustus kept everything silent, kept his plans quiet.  

 

And that... Jesus, that scared the poor little fellow to death.  Sitting there, his blond hair fringe a soft wave above his eyebrows, too much like a cherub, too much l-like a little, innocent cherub, with its wings about to be p-pinned in a shadowbox and -

 

  
"S- _Sir_ -"

 

  
" _Sebastian_ ," the voice, deeper than it usually was, thicker, clogged the young master's mind and made his body tremble, "do you know why you're here?"

 

  
"Y-Yes, I was - was... I did something - something bad - b-bad, e-evil... you s-s-said e- _evil_ ...," and his voice broke, cracked, the way the wood creaked when the claw pulled the second nail out at the jerk of his father's too-strong arm, too-familiar arm.  "But I - I didn't mean to!  I didn't mean to - I just was -"

 

  
" _Precisely_ ," Augustus interrupted, pausing for a moment as if contemplating what he was doing, before he continued.  A third nail, another squeak, and Sebastian was starting to seem jittery in the chair.  Enough so that Augustus sounded irate when he continued, "and I _warned_ you a long time ago, that the next time you did something _bad_ , there would be consequences.  _Now_ , what sort of father would I be if I gave you false promises?  If I never followed through on punishments?  Hm?  You would lack discipline.  You would lack _order_ ."

 

And A-Augustus was tall.  Tall as an oak tree and sturdy as one.  His frame was broad and his shoulders strong, shoulders Sebastian once sat on and hugged his - his father's head like - like a loving son, and he choked out a noise, a sort of sob, brittle and fragile.  The young boy didn't answer that one, but turned his head and closed his eyes when the squeak from the fourth nail was too loud, and the slow, guided steps of his father neared him.  Heavy steps, with a gentle stomp, like a soldier's, and small hands gripped white knuckles on the arms of the chair, clinging to it like a liferaft, when the child screwed his eyes shut and sputtered a weak, "S-Sir, I'm s-sorry, I'm sorry -"

 

There was kindness in his voice.  It resonated softly against the cold, cobblestone walls of the cellar, where it felt warm when the words burned into Sebastian's eardrums and invaded his mind, settling somewhere between books on Big Game Hunters and old, wealthy men with tragic stories.  It was a gentle voice, and the boy seemed calmed enough by it, calm enough to unwind himself from the tight coil in which he'd drawn his small frame.  His head turned back, gingerly, to look at his father, who had moved to kneel in front of him.

 

Eyes, a bit more hazel than anything, stared at him with a sort of lingering pity.  With a sadness, with regret.  Because he didn't want to do it, right?  Because a father wouldn't want to hurt his son.  It was something that had to be done, or else Sebastian would grow up to be a criminal, or murderer, or rapist - a-at least, that's what Sir Augustus said, the last time he'd caught Sebastian staring too long at the stable boy come to help load bales of hay into the barn.  In one hand, in one rugged, old hand, Sir Augustus held the hammer, a sort of tan birch handle, with a weathered iron head.  In his other, his large fingers curled around the n-nails... nails that he'd drawn from the - the -

 

_Breathe, Sebastian._

_Breathe._

_Don't hyperventilate._

  
_He hates it when you hyper_ -

GASP.

 

  
Sebastian was sweating, shaking.  His tiny frame seemed so small, like a little rabbit in front of a wolf, and his father's hand raised up slowly, to touch his son's cheek.  Four fingers curled around those nails, and Sir Augustus' thumb grazed the boy's cheek, gently swiping away the tears that saturated his face.  " _Ssh, ssh_ .  There, now," his father's thick voice whispered, " _Ssh._ Don't cry.  I'll fix it.  I'll make it so you're not dirty anymore.  I'll clean you up, Sebastian... and you'll _thank_ me.  Years down the road, you'll thank _me_ .  I... know that Adamina watches these princess stories.  You know she's _sick_ , right, son?  You know she isn't well.  That she watches those princess stories because they're not real, and it's easier for her to live in a world that isn't real, than to live in ours."

 

  
It was very apparent, then, why that chair had been moved to to the cellar.  The legs were uneven, if only by a smidget.  The boy's trembling frame sort of - sort of shook the chair, causing a rattle on the floor, the imbalanced legs not quite supporting the child's weight evenly, and Sebastian's voice was quiet, when he whispered back in a tone barely audible.  "...B-But - wh-why," gasp, soft, "can't I - can't I -" and a swallow, his voice shaking as much as his frame, "why c-can't I have a prince, too?  Like her?  I'm n-not - I'm n-not si- _sick_ , I'm n-not... n-not... I j-just don't - I don't - w-w-" a sob, "w-want a p-princess, S-sir, I don't..."

 

That sympathetic, gentle look on his father's face faded, but the boy had no time to absorb the difference in his stare.  How it grew chilly, then frigid, stoic and - and dead, and Sebastian wanted to speak again, to apologise, to ask why, why it was wrong, why his father ha-

 

**_CRACK._ **

 

Usually, it was a slap.  Sometimes.  More often than not, it was a crack of fingers on his face, but this time... this time, Sebastian's head jerked to the side, his body following to cripple against the left arm of the chair, and his head was dizzied, vision black and spotty, and a ringing in his right ear.  Languid, he trembled against the arm of the chair he sat in for support, feeling the sudden rush of warmth from his small nose, from his lips.  H-He knew what a punch felt like, but he'd never felt it on his - his face.  It had always been on his back, or stomach, or side.  Places where Augustus could hide it from guests.  Green eyes, blinking back to reality, stared down at the floor below over the cliff of the arm of the chair, watching the blood string from his nose and lips to the floor, making soft pittering noises.

 

The hit was a good enough distraction, it seemed, as his - as Augustus had straightened from where he knelt.  From where he stood from his kneel, and the man reached with his fingers nimble, tucking the hammer under his arm, and there was a click of his belt.  Oh.  That would do well.  Another belt beating?  Second one this week, but alright.  That was fine, and Sebastian had turned his head, just in time to see -

 

  
_No.  No.  No!_   The belt was too tight, when Augustus slapped it down over the young boy's tanned, freckled left arm.  Where the skin dented and bubbled up around the tight, black leather strap, and Sebastian's blood sprayed in the air when he sputtered, "S-Sir?!" and squirmed, kicked in his seat, pulling away from the strap as it was wr-wrapped again, again, again... again...

 

And his face was wet.

 

It was wet, with saline and burgundy, eyes red rimmed and lashes dark, heavy, and cold.  His heart pounded behind his ears, in his throat, and made it hard to swallow when he tried to speak, when he started to beg.  When he started to plead.  

 

  
_"S-Sir?!"_ and

  
"S-Sir, pl- _please_ , what -" and

"-what ah - are - wh-what is -" and

he gasped, gasped when he saw the hammer drawn from under the tall man's arm, when the slide of skin was heard in the grip of it, and Sebastian's bare feet, cold and numb, kicked at the floor below, jerking and pulling and -

"Please!" and

  
" _Please, don't!_ "

 

  
B-Because he thought, he thought, _Dad, no, please don't - don't smash my f-fingers, don't smash my fingers, please -_

 

And the voice.  That damn, stable, calm, placid, gentle, loving, caringtenderwarmunderstandingSOFT VOICE         whispered, "Stay still.  Staying still can make this all hurt much less."

 

_Still._

_Stay._

_Stay still, stay still, don't move - don't move -_

_Daddy, please -_

 

And the first nail was drawn between pinched fingers, and Sebastian didn't know how loud he was gasping.  He wasn't aware of how deep his breaths were jerking into lungs that were drowning, and blood sprayed with each frezied exhale, each sob, each huff, teeth grinding and a, "No!" burned across his tongue from a throat too tight, already growing hoarse from the fast-breathing, from the dry throat and -

 

Sebastian was a reader.  He loved to escape in books, and he'd read enough ab-about anatomy to know, to know that Sir Augustus positioned the nail between the metacarpals, index and middle, in the groove of the skin.  Where the muscle and tendon webbed between the bone, and the horrified look on Sebastian's face drew every ounce of colour from it, his pupils the size of needle heads and his muzzle coated in blood, spit, and tears.  Staring, snot bubbling out of his nose, leaning away from his arm as though that would help, pleading, apologising, because the hammer was drawing into the air, and perhaps he wasn't forming words, anymore, perhaps S-Sir Augustus wouldn't, perhaps he was just scaring the boy, and Sebastian took one deep breath when he saw the hammer reach shoulder-height on his father and -

 

The scream.

He wasn't sure it was his own, because it didn't sound human.

 

Tender, small hands are easy to put steel through.  The first smack pierces skin and interroseus muscle.  The second smack hits the wood.  The third smack plants the nail in the grain.  The fourth burrows the nail into the wood, and Sebastian wasn't sure if he was making any sound.  He wasn't sure if he was breathing.  If he was awake.  A pain rippled up his arm like one he'd never felt, and his body began to jerk with violent trembles, unable to move his hand, unable to move his arm, and - and gripping, trying to - he couldn't move his - his fingers - his -

 

Blood began rolling down the arm, over the handle, sticky between fingers, melting him, fusing him to the chair.  Burning him there, and his blood made a lacquer, it sealed the good wood and would pr-preserve it - p-preserve...

 

Shock.

Was he in shock?

 

  
His body shook as the only sound other than his own - own wheezing breathing was the sound of the - hah - of the c-cellar door closing at the top of the stairs, the doorknob turned so that it was a gentle ' _click_ ' when shut and - and he - he -

 

He was alone.

 

Perhaps he thought that was it, when the man stooped over him, slowly knelt down next to the chair, looking at the blood that ran the length of the arm, gravity pulling it to drip on the cold floor, wasted.  And he tried to breathe, he tried to focus, he tried to control the way he could only see Sir Augustus through bubbles of tears, pooled in his eyes and turning his vision to puddles.  He tried to speak, to apologise, but th-there was a -

 

No!

No, not - not again, not another - a - a second nail pressed down against his hand, already swelling, already red and bloody, the point between the middle and ring, and he worked into a frenzy, jerking his body as much as his restraints would allow, and Sebastian screamed, sobbed.

 

_"SIR -_

_SIRPLEASE -_

_PLEASE -_

_FATHER -_

_FAH -_

_FATHER -_

_FATH -_

_DA-_

_DAD-_

_DADDY -_

_DADDY -_

  
**_DADDY_ ** _-_

  
**_PLEASE!_ ** _"_

 

The first hit was a crunch, and his scream was louder, this time.  The man had hit the bone with the nail, and Sebastian's legs kicked wildly, the chair rattling and shaking beneath him, and if Augustus told him to sit still, he didn't hear over his own heaving, his own screaming, his own shrieking and screeching and howling.  Another smack, and the nail hit the wood.  A third, and fourth, it anchored, and Sebastian was writhing in the seat, sobbing, his hair mussed and soaked with sweat already forming on his brow.

 

There was no relapse time.  A third nail was held against the space between the ring and small, and the boy was retching, heaving, and now it made sense why Augustus didn't let him have dinner.  The man hated the smell of bile, and whenever Sebastian had sick on him, it only made the beatings worse.

 

Sebastian was gasping, panting, gasping, panting... 

 

Gasp... ing... 

 

Pant... ing...

 

Green eyes with pupils unfocused, dilated, stared ahead, breaths shallow, sweating, shivering, pale.  Snot, tears.  Spit ran down his little chin, with splinters of red sharp and jagged in the clear, runny liquid.

 

But that's when... 

 

When his breathing calmed.  When his eyes went dead.  When the fourth nail, he didn't feel.  When his lips parted and from them, a red string with the thickness of yarn blotted from a swollen lip and sprung to his lap, snapped, and bounced back, broken. 

 

The soft thump of the hammer was heard, propped against the chair, and Sebastian stared at the small window at the top of the wall, where sunlight shone in, where the grass was level with the glass and he could see the bright green blades.  "I'm sorry this had to happen," he heard, as though through a barrel, a funnel.  Those wet, heavy eyes flickered slowly over to a blurred image of a man with blond hair, who moved to kneel in front of the boy in the chair.  Cold hands, wet with blood, cupped Sebastian's cheeks and smeared pink against his saline cheeks, "But you understand why I had to do it, don't you, Richie?"  Sir Augustus smiled, though Sebastian didn't see it.  He stared at that window, eyes dead, dull, his breathing something hollow and soft.

 

B-But... but something in him twisted.  Coiled.  Burned.  It made his jaw lock, and his teeth grind.  It made the small space next to his nose curl up into a snarl, and his lip trembled with his words.  "Yes, s-sir," Sebastian hissed through grit teeth, where his lips were all that moved to form words.  His eyes heavy, and his tone defiant, the boy stared ahead at the wall, at that window... until there was... movement in it...

 

A flutter of black and white landed in a flurry, erratic and quick.  A magpie tapped away at the glass, where the shiny silver handle of it had caught its eye, and that's where the blond boy focused, a snarl on his lips.

 

He didn't hear Sir Augustus, when the man spoke again, "I'm going to take them out, now, son.  We'll go upstairs, and Wil will help tend to you."

 

Staring at the magpie, beak scraping the silver handle of the window; he said nothing, merely growled.  

 

He didn't need a prince to save him.

He needed a king.

Sebastian barely jerked, when the grind of the claw of the hammer gripped the head of the first, bloody nail, and there was a slide as the steady hands drew the steel back out, taking bits of skin with it against it's jagged edges.


End file.
